


Soured

by knotcricket



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Belting, Daddy Issues, Discipline, Domestic Fluff, Father-Son Relationship, Happy family times, Lemon Cakes, Other, Past Abuse, Poor Theon, Pre-Canon, Spanking, Stark Family, Theon being a snot, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-28
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2018-02-06 13:59:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1860594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knotcricket/pseuds/knotcricket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Young Theon ruins Sansa's Name Day party and gets in trouble for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soured

Theon shifted on the kitchen bench trying to find a more comfortable position. In the yard he could hear Robb and Jon sparring and sighed enviously. Not that he had ever particularly enjoyed training, but it was finest morning since he had arrived at Winterfell and instead of going fishing or tracking on the moors or even just napping in the sun, he was wasting his time staring at Gage’s ample rump as he rolled out pastry dough. 

As if sensing his thoughts, the head cook half-turned to regard him for a moment. Theon crossed his arms even tighter and shifted his gaze towards the door to the yard, propped open with the sunlight streaming in. 

“You’d be done already and out there playing with your brothers if you just did as you were told,” Gage said turning back to his dough. 

“I’m not a thrall,” Theon informed him. Do you know what my father would say if he saw me sitting in a kitchen in the first place, let alone scrubbing pots, he added silently staring daggers into Gage’s back. 

“Suit yourself,” Gage said with a shrug. “But Lord Stark said you’re not leaving until you’ve washed the breakfast dishes and if you don’t hurry up you’ll miss Lady Sansa’s party.” 

“I don’t care about Lady Sansa’s party,” he shot back. It was her fault he was in this mess in the first place. She’d come swanning down to breakfast like Jonquil herself in the new frock her mother had made for her Name Day swishing her hips back and forth to make the hem spin around her legs. 

Robb and Arya had been laughing at her too. And maybe he’d pushed it that tiny bit too far when he slipped the platter of eggs onto her chair just before she sat down but even Jon had cracked a smile at the face she pulled when she realized what had happened and the little strangled screaming noises she had made over and over again while she spun around trying to see the back of her dress had been hilarious. 

She took herself too seriously. That was her parents’ fault – spoiling her. And she’d been bragging about her stupid party for weeks. He’d done her a favour, really. Taking her down a peg. 

Theon tried to remember the last time he’d had a Name Day party and couldn’t. He remembered bits of one of Asha’s Name Days but it hadn’t been a party really. Their mother had taken them for a picnic near one of the cliffs… just the two of them thankfully as Rodrik and Maron had been old enough for their first assignments. He’d sat on her lap while she hummed a song from Harlaw and they watched Asha throwing rocks at the seagulls. 

The tear that dropped onto his shirt startled him so much he almost leapt out of his seat. Fortunately, Gage had disappeared into the pantry and Theon had time to clear his eyes before he returned. 

In each hand, the cook clutched two of the precious lemons that Lord Stark had ordered months ago from Dorne specifically for his daughter’s Name Day cake. Of course lemon cake would be her favourite, Theon thought. Nothing grown within a thousand leagues could possibly be good enough for Princess Stark. 

Gage set them on the cutting board but was interrupted by Poole before he could slice them. Lady Stark wanted to see him, no doubt about some new absurd request for the party. Sansa had decided her cakes could only be made with basilisk eggs or she wanted the punch cooled with chips of ice from the Fist of the First Men. 

As Theon swung his legs back and forth on the bench his boredom melted into anger. He wasn’t going to be ordered around or forced into drudgery or be kept a prisoner all day. If Ned Stark wanted to punish him, he could whip him and be done with it. 

Theon swung forward until both his feet were on the floor and then lifted himself up and clear off the bench. He looked around but there was no one in sight. On his way to the door the four bright yellow orbs caught his eye again and a wide grin broke across his face. 

*****

“Theon Greyjoy!”

The sound of his name being shouted caused Theon to jump back reflexively. Unfortunately, as he’d been standing on the lower slats of the pig pen, this meant his feet shuffled through mid-air before he fell on his backside and bit his tongue.

He was still smiling though until Poole yanked him to his feet by his ear. The expressions on the pigs’ faces when they bit into the lemons was possibly the funniest thing he had ever seen in his life. They were expecting something sweet and fruity until the acid hit their tongues and then their faces squinched up and they brayed like donkeys and spit the half chewed rinds at each other. 

“What in the seven hells do you think you’re doing?” 

Suddenly aware that the entire yard was staring at them, Theon scowled, blushed, knocked some of the dust off his shirt and then shrugged. 

“Nothing to say for yourself? Well maybe Lord Stark can help you find your tongue,” Poole hissed grabbing his upper arm and dragging him into the keep while everyone else stood in stunned silence. Robb started to ask what he had done but Ser Rodrik cut him off and ordered him to set for the next round with Jon. Theon felt a tiny bit better knowing he had at least one set of sympathetic eyes following him for the moment anyway. 

Lord Stark wasn’t in his study, so Poole ordered him to sit on the stairs outside while he went to find him threatening Theon with the dungeons if he moved. He sank onto the stone steps feeling drained – like a marionette with his strings cut. It wasn’t even lunchtime yet and the day was completely ruined. He might as well go back to his room, pull the covers over his head and sleep until it was tomorrow. 

He was considering doing just that when he heard the commotion starting to spread downstairs. He shuffled forward down the hall just until he could peek through the railing into the Great Hall below. Poole was telling Lord and Lady Stark about the lemons. Lady Stark’s face had turned so red her hairline had disappeared and she was waving one arm in the air and hissing something at her husband before turning and storming off. 

Of course she was goading Lord Stark into giving him a worse punishment. She had hated Theon since the moment he climbed off the cart. Almost the only thing she had said to him since then was that he looked just like his father and it was clearly not meant as a compliment. 

Theon saw Lord Stark turn in his direction and scrambled to get out of sight and back onto his step. The last few times Theon had been brought to his study, Lord Stark had made him wait but today he heard him storming directly up the stairs with Poole chasing his heels like a grim spaniel. 

He barely had time to get to his feet before Lord Stark burst out of the stairwell, crossed the hall and shoved open the door to the study. 

“In,” he barked at Theon barely giving him time to clear the threshold before he slammed the door behind them leaving a startled Poole on the other side of it. 

Theon inched forward into the centre of the room but Lord Stark had already crossed it and was pacing back and forth in front of the window. For the first time since coming to Winterfell, Theon felt the clenching in his guts that he’d always felt at Pyke return. 

He won’t hit as hard as Father does, Theon thought as his breath began to quicken involuntarily. He won’t call you names until you cry or use you for target practice or throw all your things out the window or shove you into walls. 

He stared at the carpet listing everything he could think of that his father and brothers used to do and that he couldn’t imagine Ned Stark doing. He’d never even spanked him before, so what was Theon worried about? Maybe a little shouting and then locked in his room. That’s where he wanted to go anyway. 

Theon started a nervous yawn just as Lord Stark stopped pacing, crossed the room and knelt inches from his face. His yawn collapsed, the expression on his foster father’s face chasing away every thought except a sudden crushing discomfort. 

His head dropped but Lord Stark pushed his chin back up. 

“Look me in the eyes, Theon,” he said evenly. 

“Yes, my lord,” tumbled out although his tongue felt pinned to his gums. 

“Now explain to me why you disobeyed my instructions to stay in the kitchen and clean the dishes, why you stole and intentionally destroyed something you knew was not replaceable and why you deliberately tried to hurt Sansa on her Name Day.”

I’m not a thrall died in Theon’s throat halfway through the recitation of his crimes. Instead, he looked back at the floor, had his chin lifted again and fought back tears. 

Just beat me if you’re going to, he thought furiously. Anything would be better than having to stand there with his thoughts frozen and Ned Stark’s eyes drilling into him. 

“Can you explain it Theon?”

“No, my lord,” he answered not even trying - just wanting to progress things as fast as he could. 

But Ned Stark wouldn’t be rushed. He stood, crossed behind his desk, sat down and then signaled Theon to come and stand next to him. As Theon came around the desk he saw his foster father drawing his belt out of the loops around his jerkin waist. It wasn’t as thick as the one his father usually used but it had solid metal studs all the way around it that Theon didn’t like the look of. He was furious with himself but he couldn’t stop trembling. 

“What did I say last month when you first came to live here?” Lord Stark asked. 

Theon’s mind raced but wouldn’t land on anything. All he could think about was the belt wrapped around Lord Stark’s fist. Why was he dragging out it? The only thing worse than getting a whipping was waiting for it forever like this. 

“That first week you were covered with bruises.” Theon’s head fell again and this time Lord Stark didn’t force it back up again. 

“I said the only reason you would ever be punished that way here would be if you deliberately disobeyed and broke a rule that we had already discussed. Do you remember?” 

“Yes, my lord,” Theon mumbled feeling hot tears threatening to break out of his eyes and trying to hide them with his hair. 

“Did you understand my instructions to stay in the kitchen and clean the dishes?”

“Yes, my lord.” 

“But you didn’t obey them.”

“No, my lord.” 

“Have we talked about stealing before?”

“Yes, my lord.” 

“Have we talked about considering other peoples’ feelings before you ‘play jokes’ on them?”

“Yes, my lord.” 

“I don’t see a choice then, Theon. I don’t want to whip you, but despite having had the rules clearly explained to you several times before you still disobey and break them.” 

There was no answer to give. Theon just stared miserably at the foot of Lord Stark’s chair and sniffled.

“Lean over the desk then.” Lord Stark stood up and guided Theon’s hands, shoulders and hips where he wanted them. He wasn’t tall enough for his foster father to reach his backside when they both stood, so Lord Stark sat again next to him and only swung with the force of his arm. 

It was enough though. The first lick shot straight up his spine and threatened to explode out of the roof of his head. 

Don’t cry out, don’t cry out, a much smaller version of Theon thought desperately. He hates that and he’ll just go on longer. No sounds, no moving, no asking for mercy. They’ll all just make him madder. 

It was more difficult not to cry out though because Lord Stark stopped between each stroke and tried to see his reaction. His father just thrashed and thrashed until his arm got tired, only changing his pace to beat harder at any obvious sign of weakness or distress. Lord Stark made him wait and struggle to keep his composure. 

And he kept hitting the same place. Maybe not intentionally, but his slower, more controlled approach meant every stroke landed on the same part of Theon’s ass until it felt like a firebrand had been dropped down the back of his smallclothes. 

After the fifteenth smack surprised a whimper out of Theon, Lord Stark paused for a longer moment to watch him. Theon was too afraid to turn and check his expression. He could feel that his face was as red as his ass and he could see the trails of snot coming out of his nose and dribbling down onto the desk. He wasn’t openly crying but he knew his eyes were full and he was burning with shame at how badly he was taking what was a comparatively easy beating. 

“Is that enough?” Lord Stark asked. “Do I need to keep going?”

Theon started furiously shaking his head yes before thinking and starting to shake his head no. He felt Lord Stark’s hand resting on the back of his head and quickly snuck a wrist up to wipe his eyes and nose again. 

“OK then.” Lord Stark pulled him up and over until he was almost, but not quite, sitting on his lap and wrapped an arm over his shoulder. With his other hand, he offered him a handkerchief which Theon quickly shoved over his face to hide as much of it as he could. 

“I want you to go to your room now and really think about what you’ve done. You owe Sansa an apology and when you’re ready to give it you can come out of your room and find me. Do you understand?” 

Theon shook his head yes again. He didn’t trust his voice. He felt sour bile rising in his throat but swallowed it down again.

“Good. I hope I won’t have to do this again Theon. I know you’re a smart boy and you’ll remember what we’ve talked about.” 

He felt Lord Stark’s hand stroke his hair and then his foster father stood and left without another word to him. 

Theon slunk out of the study still bent over and clutching at the knots in his stomach. He hustled to his room, slipping along the corridors he thought most likely to be empty and wishing the pain in his back and legs allowed him to stand up straight and run. 

When he got to his room, he propped a chair behind the door so no one could follow him, rolled under the bed and started sobbing. Nothing will ever be more humiliating than this, he thought.


End file.
